RELATED TOPICS

High Hurdles

Danny Harris has been through a lot. He's won an Olympic medal and halted the most storied streak in track-and-field history. He's also been addicted to crack and banned from his sport. Now comes the real struggle—to live a completely ordinary life.

Harris hadn't trained in more than two years, but he was eager to make up for lost time. He moved back to Ames and reunited with his college coach, Steve Lynn. Before long, he was in top form. In 1995, he broke 48 seconds four times in Europe; the next year, in May, at the Brazilian Grand Prix meet in Rio, Harris posted a world-leading time. He seemed to offer an almost unparalleled example of redemption—the story of an athlete overcoming addiction, returning from a long absence, and staking his claim as the country's best hurdler. His coaches and friends were glad to have him back in their midst; the subject of his past drug use was rarely broached; there was no need to dwell on it, because Harris seemed to be back to himself. It even appeared likely that sponsorship deals would soon come Harris's way, too, as the appealing, marketable image of his rebirth took hold. Only rarely did Harris offer hints that his road to recovery was more sinuous than it appeared, and that obstacles remained in his path. In May 1996, at the Prefontaine Classic in Eugene, Oregon, Harris told USA Today, "Some days are tough. You just wish you could chuck it all aside, forget your responsibilities and commitments, and do what comes natural to an addict."

Harris won the Pre Classic. It would be his last race. A few weeks later, as he was gearing up to travel to the U.S. Olympic Trials, where he was heavily favored to make the team, he got word that he'd again tested positive for cocaine. Iowa State University issued a statement on his behalf. "I experienced a relapse," it said, continuing, in dreary, anodyne fashion. "I accept full responsibility for my actions." At this point, nothing Harris could say would help him. In short order, he'd be banned from track for life. For a day or two, the sport performed its usual cleansing ritual, voicing shock and sympathy. Bob Kersee reported that he cried when he heard the news. Michael Johnson said, "This is really sad. He seemed to be doing so well." Carl Lewis commented, "It feels like a punch in the stomach," adding, "He's a great person. He has a good heart. I hope people rally to his defense and help support him as a man."

And then, naturally, the Olympics went on without him.

Harris was left to wander a particularly rarefied exile, restricted to those who squander extraordinary gifts. Having staked his identity on one thing—the ability to burn up the track—he had flamed out. He was left with nothing. At this point, "There was no reason not to stay high," he says. In what would become a tortuous process, Harris went back into rehab. He came out determined to stay clean and struggled to adapt to a new, ordinary life. He worked as a welder, a personal trainer, in a credit agency, in an oil refinery. He returned to his old high school as track coach. He would stay sober six months, nine months, a year, then relapse, and go through another round of rehab.

Harris's achievements on the track had never been enough to bring him peace; without running, though, he was adrift. Once, he had traveled on the European circuit with Evelyn Ashford and Renaldo Nehemiah. Now, he had no contact with them or any other track-star acquaintances. There were no more interview requests, no paid promotional appearances, no favors handed out by wealthy boosters of Iowa State. A 13-year-old Olympic medal and a momentarily famous victory in a 48-second race in Spain wouldn't have secured much help for Harris—even if it was his style to draw attention to his accomplishments, or to ask for help. But that wasn't him. He rode his downward spiral unostentatiously, moving in and out of jobs, houses, crack dens, support groups.